Dog Days of Summer
by a.lakewood
Summary: July '95. John leaves Dean and Sam alone at Bobby's for a week while he and Bobby go off on a hunt. An unexceptional cardboard box is left on the porch and what they find inside is probably the furthest thing from what Dean expected.


**Title**: Dog Days of Summer  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: None.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word** **Count**: ~2450  
**Summary**: July 1995. John leaves 16-year-old Dean and 12-year-old Sam alone at Bobby's for a week while he and Bobby go off on a hunt. An unexceptional cardboard box is left on the porch and what they find inside is probably the furthest thing from what Dean expected.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.

**oxoxo**

"We should be back by Thursday," John Winchester told his sons, tossing a battered, army green duffel into the back of Bobby Singer's pickup. "You've got weapons to clean and books to read, and you better stay out of trouble."

"Yes, sir," was Sam and Dean's chorused response.

John turned, held his door open with one hand while he dug the keys to the Impala out of his jeans pocket with the other. He tossed them at Dean. "Work on your Latin – your pronunciation is sloppy. And watch out for your brother."

Dean glanced sideways at his twelve-year-old brother. "Always do, sir."

"One week."

"Yep," Sam grinned. "Bye, Dad. See you then."

With a nod, John turned and climbed into Bobby's truck, then they were gone.

"So...what kinda trouble we gonna get into first?"

"You heard Dad, Sam. Weapons and books. You read, I'll clean."

Sam stared at his brother and made a face. "_You read, I'll clean,_" he mocked, turning and heading for the house.

**oxo**

By Saturday morning, Dean had cleaned every piece of weaponry stashed in the Impala's trunk. He was bored and restless and took his favorite Colt .45, the one with the ivory grips, and a few magazines out to the back of the salvage yard where he'd set himself up his own little target practice. He'd rather be a perfect shot than speak perfect Latin. Besides, Sam was engrossed in some book on revenants or angels or something equally boring, sprawled on Bobby's couch in the living room and taking up all the comfortable reading space.

He knew John would probably bitch about him wasting ammunition, but reading was so _boring_ and he preferred the slick feel of the ivory under his hand and smell of gunpowder to the smell and feel of old, musty books. So he shoved his spare mags into his back pocket and slid one into place in the pistol's handle, cocked his gun and leveled it at the closest target. Colored plastic shards from the busted blinker cover went flying.

Dean had just loaded his last magazine into the Colt when he heard the sound of a car throwing gravel as it attempted to peel away in haste. He turned towards the house and saw a cloud of gravel dust rising. He was halfway across the salvage yard before he had the conscious thought to run and sprinted up the steps to the back door and quietly let himself in, quickly swinging the squeaky door open as he tried to control his breathing and the jackrabbiting speed of his heart. He was terrified that he'd find Sam missing, or worse...

The pistol shook in his hand as he called out for his brother. "Sam?" He paused for a breath. "Sammy?" He raised the gun and quickly stepped into the living room, eyes darting about looking for the answer that Sam wasn't giving him. The front door was ajar and Sam's leather-bound book was lying open, pages fluttering, on the floor as though it had been dropped in haste. "S-_Sammy?_"

"I'm on the porch!" Sam hollered, a shadow moving across the window to the right of the door.

Dean pushed the front door the rest of the way open with the toe of his boot, lowering the pistol slightly as he peered outside. Sam stood in front of the screen, blocking Dean's view of whatever his younger brother was staring at. "What is it, Sam?"

Sam glanced over his shoulder at his brother. "I don't know," he said, stepping to the side. "A box."

"Did you see who dropped it off?" Dean opened the screen door and slipped outside, gaze focused on the cardboard box.

"Nuh-uh. Just heard the car spinning out on the gravel. It...it scared me," Sam admitted.

"Well, Bobby didn't say anything about expecting a delivery and, whoever that was, they were in hurry to get out of here without getting caught..." Dean leveled the barrel of the Colt at the box. "I say I shoot it."

Something inside the box barked and Sam's eyes widened as he dropped to his knees beside it, preparing to tear it open.

"What the _hell_ are you doing, Sam?"

Sam turned incredulous eyes towards his brother who still had the gun trained on the box. "Are you _serious_? It's a _dog_, Dean. Can't you hear it?" Whining and scratching came from inside the cardboard.

"What if it's not _just_ a dog, huh, Sammy?"

"Why do you have to be so...so fatalistic?" Sam rolled his eyes and tore the flaps of the box open, a streak of black lurching up towards Sam's face.

"Sammy, look out!"

Sam just laughed as the dog licked at his face. "Stop freaking out, Dean. It's just a puppy. A really excited puppy. It's not trying to eat my face, I swear!"

"Har har," Dean said sarcastically, finally lowering the gun and thumbing on the safety. "Just be glad I've got your back."

"Whatever," Sam replied, lifting the squirming puppy out of the box. "So what are we gonna do with him?"

"We've got three, maybe four, options the way I look at it. Shoot it, drown it, drop it off along the highway somewhere, or take it to a shelter – which costs money. Take your pick."

Sam looked utterly horrified. "It's a _puppy!_ We can't _kill_ it. What's wrong with you? Why can't we just keep it?"

"Yeah. And you can try explaining that one to Dad. Then I can guarantee you there'll only be one option and it starts and ends with a bullet." Dean tried his best to ignore the tears welling in his little brother's eyes, but he couldn't. Not when they were more pleading and pathetic than those of the damn dog. "Maybe Bobby'll want it. Raise it for a guard dog or something."

Sam's eyes brightened. "Yeah," he sniffled. "What kind of junkyard doesn't have a junkyard dog?"

"It's a salvage yard, Sam."

"_Whatever,_" Sam said again.

"It's your responsibility to take care of it until Bobby gets back and decides what he wants to do with it."

"Then I guess you're gonna have to go into town and get him food."

Dean shook his head. "Sam-"

"Dad gave you the keys to the Impala."

"Dad will _kill_ me if I take her without permission."

"Then, I don't know." Sam glanced about the salvage yard, looking at all the cars in various states of repair. "Maybe you could hotwire one of these cars. It'll be no big deal."

Sam was condoning something illegal? Dean's raised eyebrows were his only reply.

"I've got money," Sam said.

"You what?"

Sam sheepishly shrugged a shoulder, adjusting his hold on the puppy in his arms. "I've got some money saved."

"Where?"

Sam laughed. "Like I'm stupid enough to tell you." He held the puppy out towards his brother. "Here. You take him and I'll go get you the money."

Dean hesitated, then shoved the Colt in the waistband of his jeans and took the dog from Sam's outstretched hands.

**oxo**

For four days, Dean watched from the porch as Sam attempted to train the energetic puppy in the front yard. He burst out laughing more times than he could count as the dog would disobey Sam and take off with the stick or ball Sam had thrown or attempt to plow his brother over. The dog thought it was a game, evading Sam, but then he'd calm down – or decide to give Sam a break – and would sit when Sam said "sit," and lie down when Sam told him "down." But the dog's favorite, by far, was "fetch," and that's when Sam would lose him all over again. But, surprisingly, the dog listened for the most part.

Thursday morning, with John and Bobby due back at any time, Dean walked out onto the porch expecting to find Sam and the puppy working in the yard again, but he couldn't see his brother anywhere. "Sammy?" Dean called, starting down the steps and heading around the side of the house. There, he found a three-foot-wide hole, flowers and dirt clods strewn across the grass. Then another. And yet another. "Sam?" he tried again, scanning the rows of cars in salvage yard.

Sam emerged from between an Old Cutlass Supreme and a Plymouth Duster looking filthy and dejected.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

"The dog. He saw a squirrel and just..." His breath hitched and Dean was afraid he was going to start crying. "I brought him out so he could do his duty, you know, but I fell asleep while I was waiting and he'd done all this." He gestured to upturned plants. "I came around the side of the house and he saw me and kind of cowered like he knew he was in trouble and then he kind of ran away. We were back by the shed when he saw the squirrel. I chased him for a little bit then...then I lost him."

Dean put a hand on his brother's shoulder and squeezed gently. Sam may not have named the dog, but he'd grown attached just the same. "I'm sure he didn't go far."

"You think?"

"He's probably got that squirrel run up a tree by now and he's gotta get hungry some time. You've got the food," Dean reasoned. He tightened his hold on Sam's shoulder and gave him a small push towards the side of the house. "While you're waiting, you should probably get that all cleaned up before Dad and Bobby get back."

Sam cast a forlorn glance back in the direction of the cars. "Yeah, I guess."

Dean left Sam to it and headed back into the house to get their things together and clean up whatever little messes they'd made.

It couldn't have been much after noon when Dean heard a vehicle coming down Bobby's gravel driveway. He dropped his book on demons onto the pile already on Bobby's dining room table and headed outside. Sam was coming around the side of the house the same time he started down the stairs and he cast his younger brother a questioning glance. Sam shook his head and shrugged in reply.

Bobby pulled the truck up right alongside the Impala, he and John both climbing out and pulling their bags from the bed of the pickup. "Boys," John greeted. "I trust you stayed out of trouble."

Sam and Dean shared another look. "Of course, sir."

That was when the dog came tearing out of the tall grass on the other side of the driveway, barreling straight for Sam and nearly skidding to a stop at his feet. Sam turned wide, fearful eyes up to his father.

"What's that?" John asked, glancing at Bobby out of the corner of his eye.

"Goddamn Louise," Bobby spat, dropping his bag and lifting his cap to smooth down his short hair. "She told me a couple months ago her dog was havin' pups, said she'd drop one by when they were big enough. I told her no, that I don't need a damn dog. She musta seen I wasn't home, dropped it by."

"Somebody dropped him off Saturday afternoon," Sam said. "Left real fast, too. I've been working with him. Look." He walked a little ways out into the yard and the puppy made to follow him. "No. Stay." He pointed to the ground and the dog stopped. "Now...sit." The dog obeyed. "Lay down." The puppy flopped to his belly, little brown eyebrows twitching as he looked up at Sam. "Good boy." He glanced over at Bobby and his father. "Come," he told the dog. It launched itself at Sam, stubby tail wagging excitedly. Sam picked a small branch up from the ground and tossed it. "Fetch." The dog chased after the stick and picked it up, starting towards Sam, then rethinking it and circling back behind Dean. "Yeah...we're still working on that one."

The corner of Bobby's mouth quirked up in a half-smile and he got down on a knee and whistled at the puppy. "C'mere, boy." The puppy stopped, dropped the stick, and trotted over to Bobby, much to Sam and Dean's surprise. He scratched behind the dog's ears and patted his back, then looked over at Sam. "Well, I guess I could use the company."

"And a guard dog," Sam suggested.

"And a guard dog," Bobby agreed.

"You sure?" John questioned.

"Sure, why not."

Sam turned towards his brother, satisfied I-told-you-so smirk on his face.

"You boys about ready to go, then?" John asked his sons.

"Yes, sir," Dean answered, turning to go back into the house to grab his and Sam's bags. He returned outside and headed straight for the Impala, opening the trunk and tossing the bags inside. Then he went to his father's side and handed him the keys. "I told him he couldn't keep it...he thought maybe Bobby would. At least now he's got the whole wanting a dog thing out of his system."

John glanced at Dean and nodded. "Come on, Sam. Let's go."

Sam started for the car, leaning down to rub the puppy's belly as he passed. "Bye, Bobby." The puppy whimpered and started after Sam, but Sam told him, "Stay," and he did.

"Bye, kid." Bobby stood and extended a hand towards John when the senior Winchester approached him.

"You know," John began, shaking Bobby's hand, "you don't have the keep the pup on account of Sam."

"I know. But it's not a bad idea to keep 'im around as a guard dog. 'Sides, I could use the companionship."

John nodded. "Okay, then. Bye, Bobby."

"Bye." Bobby watched the Winchesters load into the Impala and drive away, then leaned down and scooped the puppy up to carry him into the house. "So...what do you think about Rumsfeld?" he asked the puppy, setting him down the kitchen floor.

The puppy looked up at Bobby and cocked his head to the side.

"Rumsfeld? You like that? Come 'ere, Rumsfeld."

The puppy barked and took a couple steps towards Bobby.

Bobby chuckled. "Rumsfeld, it is."


End file.
